


take me to the pilot

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (sort of), Angst, Belligerent Sexual Tension, M/M, Porn With Plot, Season/Series 02, private lessons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22627120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: Shiro made Keith promise to lead Voltron. He doesn't expect Shiro to follow up on it.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 112





	take me to the pilot

Keith hopes Shiro's forgotten about his equivalent of deathbed promise, but he's never been that lucky. 

"So," Shiro says after a sparring session, too-casually sipping his Altean juice box, "I'm thinking I should at least prepare you for leadership." 

Keith pretends to stretch his quad. Out of sight, out of mind—or unheard and not talked about ever again. He hopes. 

"I know you heard me, Keith," Shiro says, raising his voice. There's a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth. "Come on. Nothing too lecture-y, I promise. Maybe just one. But there might be a way to incorporate my old timed trivia rounds. You versus the buzzer?" 

Sighing, Keith straightens up after arching his back, arms raised above his head. He's well aware of his shirt riding up, showing the new muscles on his stomach, and hopes Shiro notices, then curses himself for despite being old enough to own property, he's still pulling middle school-level stunts. He's pathetic. 

"You could throw me into the deep end and see how things go," Keith replies. "Worked before." 

"Not at the beginning," Shiro says, and his tone is now less playful. "This isn't the Garrison anymore, Keith." 

Right. Where the consequences are more than a demerit or a week scrubbing grout out of bathroom tile. 

"I've thought about this before, but in better circumstances," Shiro continues. "It's traditional to be paired with a senior officer for a few months after you graduate. I assumed it would be me.” He ducks his head, leaving Keith to process what he just said—him and Shiro in identical gray uniforms, posing by a ship with its nose pointed straight at the sky—

“I don't think I could have been with anyone else,” he blurts. _Shut up_. 

Shiro only smiles. “Well, I've never done this before, so this is going to be a learning curve for both of us.” 

_Not that I'll need it,_ Keith thinks, but doesn't push. After all, he doesn't want to turn down time alone with Shiro. “All right,” he says. “What time’s good for you?”

* * *

He waits in his room like a teenager by the front window, ears perked for a rumble of a car pulling into the driveway. Keith’s not sure at all what to expect—he’s changed from his armor to his Earth clothes to his armor again before compromising with the sparring clothes he’d worn earlier that day. He wishes he hadn’t left his datapad on Earth, that he’d had the same foresight as Pidge, who presided over the bickering over the music and movies downloaded on her laptop.

Keith misses his photos, though he couldn’t look at them for almost a year. The camera roll was roll after roll of life before all of this—notes from Matt and flight diagrams on the board and shaky videos of hoverbike races. There’s a lot from the launch day, too—Shiro young and laughing and without any scars, standing on the platform and waving goodbye.

Maybe it’s better not to have it.

Finally, he hears a knock, and hopes his voice is casual enough: “Come in.” 

Shiro walks in, sweeps his eyes over Keith and the room—he’s more observant than Keith remembers, deliberately sitting with his back to the wall and eyes to the exit. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Keith agrees. He looks at Shiro curiously; Shiro’s not wearing his armor, just his usual vest and pants, and he’s not holding any weapons or ancient Altean texts or even his tablet. “Where are we going? Training room?”

“No,” Shiro says, and Keith falls in step behind him as they start down the hallway. “Somewhere else.”

“Are we sneaking out?” Keith asks, somewhat playfully, recalling their Garrison days.

Shiro doesn’t look back. “It’s in the castle, but not somewhere you’ve been.”

“Oh, so it’s somewhere you’ve been?”

“Yes,” Shiro says, but doesn’t explain further.

They finally reach a door, where it opens into a space that reminds Keith of a lounge: a half-circle booth surrounding a table, larger enough that he could easily lay across and not dangle his feet over the edge.

“Here we are,” Shiro says, then presses something on the edge of the table. Immediately, the surface glows a faint blue, Altean symbols hovering in midair, and Shiro flicks his hand this way and that until a revolving map of stars appear. “Virtual battle tactics.” He looks pleased with himself. “Coran adapted the scenario training. The others will react as realistically—hopefully—as they would in real life.”

“Others?”

Shiro smiles, presses another button. Five holographic lions pop up.

Keith stares. “I’m not sure I like this.”

“We have the advantage of Coran and Allura backing us up,” Shiro says. “But they can’t always be there, and the chaos—the battles—the systems—you need to be able to step in if something happens.”

“So you want _me_ to what? Plan one of our strike missions?”

“Not yet,” Shiro says, and Keith silently mouths the words in disbelief. “For now, we’re just going over battle scenarios.” He presses and holds a button underneath the table. “Just say your name, and it’ll connect with your voice.”

Keith stares at the flickering lions, the slow rotation of dots, then at Shiro’s open, reassuring smile. “Keith Kogane,” he says slowly.

The images blink, then seem to grow brighter. Keith holds his breath as a faint beep sounds in the empty room, and looks at Shiro, who nods in approval.

It goes wrong immediately—he keeps losing track of at least one lion, every half-formed thought spurts out of his mouth in panic, virtual blasters strike critical hits before a minute passes. He keeps cursing and getting tangled up in his mistakes, and it’s not until the images glow a threatening red that he realizes he’s lost everyone.

“Shit,” he whispers helplessly. He wonders how often Shiro’s seen this scenario playing out: all five lions falling out of the sky. How Shiro’s able to keep it together, to be so calm. And how it’s supposed to be _his_ job.

Shiro’s hand cradles his shoulder, squeezes. “Let’s try it again,” he says.

* * *

The next few days are a trial, with six different distress calls from across the galaxy, ten close calls involving last-minute plans and malfunctioning equipment, and so many wormhole jumps that Allura barely muttered a protest when Coran insisted she go rest. Through the comms, he hears Hunk yawn several times, Pidge mutter combinations of equations to keep herself awake, and Lance extolling the wonders of a good night’s rest.

Keith’s still trying to decide whether to drag himself to bed, or simply fall asleep in his lion, armor and all, when he hears Shiro’s voice: “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he answers, trying to cover a yawn of his own. “It’s just been crazy.”

“Don’t we all know it.” There’s a pause. “We’ll shorten our lesson tonight.”

Keith would bolt up in his seat if he had the energy. “You’re kidding.”

“Sorry,” Shiro says, but to Keith’s drowsy and grouchy state of mind, doesn’t seem contrite enough. “This sort of thing happens. Just a quick review.”

“Only for you, Shiro,” Keith mutters, then waits for a good five minutes until he drags himself up.

Shiro’s waiting for him, one hand on his hip and a raised eyebrow. “You need a watch?”

“I need a nap,” Keith responds, and Shiro gives a resigned _I walked into that one_ sigh before leading the way. Keith stumbles after him, cursing in his head, as Shiro leads him to the dreaded room and allows Keith to flop over the nearest seat. He barely raises his head when Shiro turns the table on, then sits down beside him.

Shiro begins talking, and Keith’s head keeps grazing the edge of the cushion before rising back again. Faint blue lines cross other blue lines, spinning into a web that Keith knows he should be paying attention to, but he only nods and makes occasional grunts, hoping to get it over with so he can sleep. Shiro’s so close, Shiro’s shoulder is right near his cheek, fabric brushing flesh, and if he falls over at just the right time…

“Keith? Keith, are you listening?”

Keith sits up, blinks innocently. “Yes.”

“Then what did I say?”

“Exactly?”

Shiro sighs, waves his hand. The images disappear. “Keith. Sometimes, it’s exhausting, but you have to push through and make decisions.”

“I’m tired of pushing.” _Being pushed,_ he wants to say, but holds his tongue.

But Shiro seems to sense those words. “I push you,” he says, “because I know you can take it.”

“Take it,” Keith echoes tiredly. “Is that what you want me to do?”

Something flickers in Shiro’s eyes. “I want you to push _back_.”

* * *

The training goes on. Battle strategies. Quizzes on planets and geography. Diplomatic diagrams. Reviewing what they already know about the Empire’s setups. Emergency procedures.

It’s humoring Shiro, Keith, thinks, until Shiro figures out he’s not cut out for this or simply forgets. But neither happens, and more irritably, Keith’s hit with the familiar urge to impress—and at the same time, he has to remind himself to drag his feet, because if he admits they need these contingencies—

The warring ideals take Keith to an edge that is pleasure-pain. He wants to do right by Shiro, he does, but not at Shiro’s expense. He never took anything from Shiro after Kerberos, never, and replacing him would be the ultimate form of betrayal, the equivalent of blood money.

He’s no fool; he knows Shiro has a legacy in mind for Keith, always has. Plans. But plans that do not involve him, plans Keith refuses to make, and will delay as much as possible.

He begins reading Shiro’s pilot logs, mission reports that he’d given Keith to study, a familiar format: month-day-year, Success or Failure, detailed summary, suggestions for next time. He can feel Shiro in every typed word, as if Shiro’s pressed up against his back and reading it to him, with himself leaning back, feeling warm breath ghosting over his ear, the low cadence making his synapses dance, solid hands on his hips.

He imagines those hands on him, maneuvering as deftly as the holograms. He wants them, for Shiro to be in control, because he doesn’t have a deadline, because he trusts Shiro to always be there. He wonders if his devotion is heightened because of the war, clinging to Shiro this tightly because he knows now more than ever he _can_ lose Shiro and that day can approach faster than Shiro’s life expectancy.

Keith floats back to back to old fantasies as he reads, of Shiro standing behind him in the simulator, praise feathering across the nape of his neck, fingers reaching over to wrap around Keith’s cock, as steady and sure as Keith’s hands on the controls, though if Shiro kept going, his hands would be trembling with an effort to keep still—and kisses would be pressed against his pulse, hidden by the orange cadet collar, hands tapping mnemonic beats with hushed hints—

_Reckless…quick…filled with potential…Keith will surpass me one day._

He stops. Rereads the words.

He closes the logs, and doesn’t look at them again.

* * *

“Going off with Shiro again?” Lance asks after dessert one night. “I wish we were invited to your little field trips.”

“No, you don’t,” Pidge says, pulling a finger through the remaining crumbs to clean the plate. "Have you s _een_ Keith’s face—like he and Shiro aren't busy banging behind everyone's backs." 

"Try saying that five times fast," Hunk muses as Lance sputters, " _What_!" 

Keith flushes dark red, telling himself that he isn't disgruntled that that's not what they're doing. “It's not that. We...we’re just training.”

“Right,” Pidge says. “Except you’re not in the training room.”

“So? We’ve sparred in other areas of the castle.”

“Why? The training room has over a thousand simulations and landscapes, and even more droid interactives.”

“For different terrain,” Keith says quickly. “Or…we could get into a fight inside the castle, like what happened with Sendak—this place is like a maze, you know.”

“Oh, yeah,” Hunk agrees, “last night I couldn’t sleep, so I was wandering around—couldn’t even find my own room. I think I slept in that room with all the grass.”

“There’s _grass_ in space?” Lance asks, amazed.

But Pidge isn’t deterred. “So, why don’t you invite us? You guys aren’t the only ones who go out there and fight.”

“It’s…” Keith curses her curiosity. “We—it’s more advanced than what we all do. High level, uh, stuff.”

 _That_ riles Lance up, as if this conversation couldn’t get any worse: “Are you saying we’re not good enough?”

Keith doesn’t want to say yes, but he can’t think of a better excuse. “Uh,” he begins. 

“Wowwwwww,” Lance says. “I thought y _ou_ stopped being Shiro’s favorite at the Garrison, but I guess I was wrong. You’re already his right hand—what more do you want?”

The _nerve_. Keith’s fists clench. “Just what are you saying?”

“I’m saying you don’t want Blue, like I’ve always suspected. You’re shooting higher, aren’t you?”

“Lance,” Hunk tries.

“Shut up,” Keith seethes. “Shut up right now.”

“What? Did I find you out?”

“Not everything is a popularity contest! Get over yourself!”

This time, it’s Lance’s turn to fluster, whirling on Keith, with Pidge and Hunk staring with identical wide-eyed expressions: “Well, I—you’re just jealous, because you—you didn’t have any real friends until we were locked together in this floating hunk of magical metal! Unlike you, I had people who cared about me! You just had _one_ person, and he probably felt sorry for you.”

That smarts enough for Keith to whirl around and head for the door, but not before yelling a “Fuck you!” on the way out.

“I already have!” Lance shouts after him.

* * *

In the room, Keith opens and closes his fists, wanting to scream. _Banging behind each other’s backs. Felt sorry for you. Shooting higher—_

“You okay there?”

“Lance,” Keith seethes.

Shiro raises his eyebrows. “Again?”

“Again.” Keith wants to kick the ground, but knows that’ll only get him sore toes.

“You need to keep a cool head. Both of you,” Shiro amends. “But you—”

“Yeah, I need to do better, I know.”

“Still,” Shiro says, “I don’t think you two have been fighting as often as you used to, not since—Zarkon. What happened?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“ _Nothing_ ,” he repeats, a bite to his tone.

Shiro drops it. “Okay.” He looks as if he wants to say something, but instead says, “Tonight, we’re going to do something different. Follow me.”

They head down a familiar hallway, Keith trailing behind him with his arms crossed. He stalks past the lions, eyes dark and still, wonders if Red can feel the simmering, the seething in his head. 

Then, Shiro steps back and gestures towards a ramp.

Keith freezes. “No,” he says.

“Keith,” Shiro tries, “this is important; we both know you can pilot Black and you should—”

“ _No_ ,” Keith repeats, more vehemently.

“Keith, this is the point of the exercise; when I’m—”

“I won’t do it!” Keith snaps. He’s so fucking frustrated, wound up tighter than a bowstring, and he’s so fucking tired and he wants Shiro to see that losing him is not inevitable. “You can teach me or make me do those simulations again, but you can’t make me sit in that lion. I _won’t_. And if you make me, we— _these_ are done.”

He doesn’t know why, but for some reason, this is the time Shiro pushes back:

“You have to take this seriously! Something could happen to me, Keith, and then you won't be ready—and by extension, the team—won't be ready!”

Keith snaps, too. "I told you I didn't want this. I don't want this. Nothing is going to—" 

“Something will!” Shiro shouts, agitated. Keith’s never seen him like this, flustered and panicked and furious. “This is war, Keith; we've barely escaped with our lives after fleets, and Zarkon would have killed us if the shield hadn't gone down; I nearly did when Haggar attacked me—"

“How could I forget?” Keith asks, voice rising higher and higher. “Do you think I could have forgotten? That I thought you were going to leave a second time, after I just got you back? You weren't there the first time, Shiro. It broke me, I couldn't handle it, I got thrown out of the Garrison and wandered in the desert, and do you think I could handle it again? _Look at me_ and tell me to my face that you think I can? Because…I can’t," he repeats helplessly, and suddenly, feels the need to tell Shiro. Why not now, after he's all but said it? "Because..." 

"Keith," Shiro interrupts. "I know.”

"You know?" Somehow, this is worse than if he'd been totally oblivious. "You _know_?”

“Keith…”

"No!" Keith shouts, shoving him. The fire is back, flint striking stone, spark lighting every nerve. "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you—"  
  
Shiro's hand claps hard over his mouth, and Keith realize he's pressed up against his chest. “Stop.”  
  
Keith bites at the gloved flesh, but Shiro doesn't even flinch. He starts kicking, throwing his elbows backwards, spitting and fighting and raging, but Shiro is unmovable, cool as steel, so fucking calm that Keith wants to scream, which he does, screeching like a banshee underneath Shiro's hand.  
  
“You want me to be the leader? You want me to get in _your_ lion? You won't be able to, because you can't make me do anything.”  
  
Shiro's voice is a growl: “Yes, I can.”  
  
He starts dragging Keith towards the ramp, and Keith thrashes like a hooked fish. He suddenly realize Shiro isn't using his right hand, and takes advantage, ducking under his left arm and making a run for it.  
  
But Shiro charges after him, eyes brighter and fiercer than Keith's ever known, and Keith, for the first time in his life, fights him. It's an ugly scuffle, more suitable for a back alley, and Keith musters all the dirty tricks he's ever learned, from pulling hair to biting hard and never letting go.

The whole time, Shiro doesn't use his right hand, and this makes Keith angrier, that Shiro's going easy on him, Shiro's _pitying_ him—  
  
He swings, and Shiro, reacting on instruct, finally, finally catches Keith's hand in his. His fingers are wrapped around Keith's like a lover's, and that's the detail that makes Keith leap over the cliff.  
  
He kisses Shiro, hard and angry, and Shiro stills beneath him before kissing back, winding a fist tight enough into Keith's hair to make him gasp. Shiro swallows it down, kissing him again and again, until Keith realizes they're on the floor, Shiro underneath him, pupils blown, with Keith's right knee arching into a crook Shiro's rutting himself against.  
  
"Listen to me," Shiro hisses, bangs falling in his eyes.  
  
"No," Keith says. His chest is boiling dangerously, lid on the verge of rattling, aware he's playing a dangerous game.  
  
“For once in your life,” Shiro mutters through gritted teeth, stilling beneath Keith’s knee, the effort causing him to tremble, “do what I say."  
  
Keith has only one response: "I always do."  
  
He pulls Shiro, up, up, up, feet scrabbling backwards until they stumble into a seat, the edge pressing hard against Keith's shoulder bone, but he doesn't care. Every touch sends cool shivers through his veins, but he's never felt so hot, burning like a wildfire devouring dry brush and branches and ash, chest tight as if he's sucking in the smoke. His neck tingles, his hips burn, the arches of his feet and toes curl and ache so deeply. Gloves still hide Shiro’s flesh, but every crevice of Keith, from underneath his shirt and collecting between his knees, is soaked. And between his legs, he wants and wants and wants, fiercer than hunger or thirst or grief.  
  
He pulls Shiro down on top of him as Shiro bends his spine backwards, kissing him hard enough to bruise. Keith responds, tearing off Shiro's armor, pieces clattering to the floor one by one, the chestplate and pauldron and snaps of pieces he can’t name but thinks he’s broken off altogether—and how, he doesn’t know, but he doesn’t care. He wants Shiro to touch him; he never could, because their ages or positions or the simple fact of not acknowledging the dance they’ve gotten used to doing.

But he can, he can hold Keith’s entire life in his hands and Keith will let him. 

Shiro's hands begin ripping Keith's armor off, too, and Keith surrenders when the last of it falls away, tenderness replacing wildness, submitting to Shiro at last.

* * *

A faint purplish glow awakens him.  
  
Keith sits up, wincing slightly over his bruises. But he feels strangely clean, as if he's stepped out of the desert with dust and grime and then bathed by cool rain. Every part of him feels cool and light and tingly, but his heartbeat is strangely calm.  
  
He's as naked as a jaybird, he realizes, but it doesn't feel strange at all. Not with Shiro in the same state he is, draped over him like a large cat, stroking over his back, soft and slow and sweet, a contrast to the fire and fleet and ferocity only moments ago.

The rush of anger is over, and Keith lays there, exhausted and feeling as if everything's been yanked out through his lungs. 

“I never knew,” Shiro finally whispers, “about Kerberos.” 

“We never talked about it,” Keith says. “And why would we? None of us want to think about that.”

“No,” Shiro agrees, “but maybe we should have. And before we started...this.” His hand pauses, settling on Keith’s shoulder. “You knew about...my illness, even before Voltron. Out of everyone, I thought you'd...know. Or not expect me to live that long.”

"I didn't think about it," Keith says. "I just...I couldn't think about it, and then you were off to Kerberos before I...and then..." All of the words tangle up within him. He thought they'd figure something out down the line, that Shiro would live a long and happy life, that they'd be co-pilots, that there'd be a future not only for Shiro—

Shiro's voice is quiet. "I thought about it. I wasn't going to choose lightly. But when you piloted the Black Lion, I knew for sure that you were going to be the one."

Keith closes his eyes. He hadn't wanted this; he'd only grabbed at a chance to save Shiro with both hands. "I don't know if I can do this without you." 

"You'll have to," Shiro says. He's facing Keith now, kneeling like a penitent sinner, looking up at him with desperation and hope. 

"I can't," Keith begs. The Black Lion hums around him, presence pressing into his mind, power thrumming through his veins, and he tries to twist away, tries to refuse one last time. "Please, Shiro. I've never asked you for anything. Please." 

But Shiro reaches forward, palms out, and Keith knows he will say yes. 

**Author's Note:**

> This originally began as "hey, if Shiro actually intended to make Keith leader, what if he actually prepared him for that crucial role?" 
> 
> And then it went rogue. 
> 
> This was also inspired by [this wonderfully intense, gut punch of a sheith comic!](https://twitter.com/coffeecakey/status/883740931102359553?s=20)
> 
> Yell at me in the comments or on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/annaofaza)


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